Letting Go
by sophiedoodle
Summary: Tom faces his father. A sequel to "Jealousy."


Letting Go

Disclaimer: Star Trek Voyager, its characters, etc. are owned by Paramount.

_Author's Note: A huge thanks to Marauder for her invaluable advice on this one!_

His father's study was silent.

Owen sat comfortably in one of the big armchairs next to the fireplace with Miral snuggled contentedly into his neck as she slept. Tom himself was perched on the edge of the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. In an unprecedented coup, B'Elanna and his mother had firmly ejected their husbands from the after-dinner cleanup, and Tom had made his way to the study upon Owen's invitation. He felt edgy, every nerve in his body humming in anticipation.

Although Voyager had now been back for almost three months, they hadn't talked. Not really. Owen had congratulated Tom on his accomplishments in the Delta Quadrant and hadn't contradicted any of the praise that his mother had heaped upon him. But he offered few words, and Tom wished that reticence had always been a trait of Owen's. It would have saved them both from years of heartache.

Or at least years of yelling at one another.

He dropped his head, feigning interest in the sleek wood-grain of the paneled floor, breathing deeply and trying to calm himself. Tom could feel his father's eyes on him, studying him—_scrutinizing him—_and he finally picked up his head, feeling the unwelcome thudding of his heart. Owen met his gaze thoughtfully, decisively, and Tom tried not to flinch. And then Owen spoke.

"I'm sorry, Tom," he said quietly, without preamble, and Tom stiffened.

"Sorry for what, Dad?" Tom's voice sounded weak, even to his own ears, and he cursed himself, shifting in his seat and straightening his back. He hadn't just spent seven years trying to prove himself in the Delta Quadrant to allow his father to break him with one conversation. He owed himself more than that.

"For…" Owen hesitated, his free hand gesturing helplessly. "For…everything."

The room was quiet again as Tom regarded his father. There was a vulnerability, a sincerity, in the Admiral's voice that was new. Miral shifted in Owen's grasp, making snuffling noises into his chest. Tom rose and reached for his daughter.

"It's getting late," he said firmly. "B'Elanna and I need to be at work early in the morning."

Owen made no move to relinquish the baby, and his eyes gathered a fierceness that Tom knew all too well.

"Sit down, Tom," he said, and this time a hint of command tone had crept into his voice. "We need to talk."

"Is that an order?" Tom snapped back.

Owen launched himself out of the chair, his eyes blazing. "Yes." Miral murmured in protest at the movement and loud voices, and Tom felt his anger melt away.

"This isn't Starfleet Headquarters. You're not my commanding officer," he said softly. He walked over to his father and stood mere inches from him. Owen drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then seemed to crumple.

"You're right, Tom," he responded simply. "Sometimes I forget I'm not at work." The admission, _the tacit apology_, stunned Tom into silence.

They stood, facing each other like uncertain enemies. Then Owen spoke again.

"Son, I would really like the opportunity to talk with you." His voice was nearly inaudible, and Tom nursed a familiar ache in the back of his throat. He nodded mutely and returned to the couch. Owen looked away for a minute.

"I know that I was too hard on you when you were younger. I wanted you to be something you weren't," Owen admitted, and Tom felt despairing laughter percolating within him. For seven years he had imagined this conversation. What his father would say, what he would say. Sometimes they would both be angry. Sometimes it would be a quiet reconciliation. And sometimes, when he was feeling particularly discouraged, it ended with him walking away.

But now the moment was here. And the sadness, _the irony of it all_, didn't escape him. And it was no longer a script written in his head; it was real, and it hurt, and this time he couldn't dictate the ending.

"Just because it was what you wanted for me didn't make it right," he muttered, just for something to say. Where was the anger, the surety, the self-righteousness, when he needed it the most? All he felt was drained.

"I know," Owen said softly. "But it's taken me all these years to figure it out." Despite himself, Tom let out a sigh of laughter then rubbed a hand tiredly across his face.

"You know," Tom said carefully, his eyes once again tracing the pattern of the floor below. "It took a long time for me to see myself as more than what _you_ thought I was." His father swallowed hard, a hand coming up to his mouth.

"Tom-" Owen began, but Tom shook his head.

"No. That's wrong. What really took a long time was for me to see myself as more than _I _thought I was," he said suddenly, definitively. "It took Captain Janeway. She saw more in me than I even knew was there."

"Captain Janeway," Owen repeated, his tone indecipherable.

"Yes, Captain Janeway." Tom couldn't prevent defensiveness from garnishing his voice.

"She believed in you," Owen said flatly, and the air was left heavy with what he hadn't said.

"You're angry with her," Tom murmured, unable to hide the tears in his voice.

"No, son," Owen said softly. "I'm angry with myself." Owen dropped his head down to the curve of Miral's cheek and kept it there for a long time. And when he finally raised his head, Tom could see the tears that were slipping down his father's face, the raw pain that spilled from his eyes.

"Dad," Tom murmured, his hand reaching out almost unconsciously towards his father, but Owen stopped him with a shake of his head.

"Your daughter is beautiful," he whispered, and Tom blinked at the sudden swerve in conversation.

"But sometimes when I look at her…" The words trailed off, and his father swallowed hard again. Tom felt frustration unaccountably building within him.

"What, Dad? What do you see?" he cried, desperate to understand, even if only for the moment.

"You. I see you," Owen half-shouted. "And it scares me." The last words were whispered, and in his heart, Tom suddenly felt it. The weight of the anger, resentment, inadequacy, and at times, hatred, that had been there for as long as he could remember was beginning to trickle away.

And he wondered for the very first time in his life if he could actually let it go.

"You know better this time," he finally said, his voice shaking. Owen looked at him then, and the eyes that had so long been full of judgment were now oddly empty.

The door to the study burst open, and his mother and B'Elanna were suddenly standing there. Their smiles were tentative, their glances inquiring. Owen immediately stood, offering the baby to her mother. B'Elanna accepted Miral and impulsively leaned in to kiss the Admiral's cheek. At first, Owen seemed taken aback, but then he reached out to squeeze her arm in reply.

"You sure you don't want to take over night duty for us?" B'Elanna asked, laughing as she tucked a fleecy blanket around Miral. "You always seem to be able to get her to sleep."

"A grandfather's touch," he said with an indulgent grin, then ducked his head rather self-consciously.

"Wish you'd had it back when Tom and the girls were young," Tom's mother commented wryly, patting her husband's arm.

"Well, duty calls," Tom interjected quickly. "The alarm will go off before we know it."

"We'll see you on Sunday, darling?" his mother asked, reaching up to smooth the hair off Tom's forehead. He nodded, and his mother followed B'Elanna and Miral through the doorway and into the foyer. Tom began to follow but then stopped and looked back. He met his father's eyes one last time.

And this time, those eyes were filled with only one thing.

"Good night, Tom," his father said quietly.

"Good night, Dad," he said.

And as he walked away with B'Elanna's hand in his, he was surprised by how much easier it suddenly was to breathe.

_**The End**_


End file.
